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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444857">A Storm of Lavender.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightdanced/pseuds/lightdanced'>lightdanced</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Arcana (Visual Novel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Based on my headcanons, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:28:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>966</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightdanced/pseuds/lightdanced</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucio finds wonderment in the beauty of one of Prakra's daughters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lucio/Nadia (The Arcana)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Storm of Lavender.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Basically: I have a lot of feelings and headcanons about Nadia and Lucio.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Prakra is brilliant in the color consuming. Nature devours what belongs to her; greenery lacing large marble columns in vines creeping. The water flowing throughout the streams weaving the halls of the grand empire shimmers in its clear blue. Birds are motley in the colors in their feathers, and roam free without a cage. Gold is embedded in the marble of the floor and the sun’s gentle rays reflect, among the day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The steps of many, echo throughout the halls of Prakra’s palace. A ball rage, wine consumed—many waltzing with nothingness, or with another. Eyes are wide with wonder, for those with infant knowledge of Prakra—find adoration in its beauty. Even he, Count Lucio, found it to be beautifully golden—golden as his own arm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He adores it too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prakra is brilliant in the crowds surrounding their three dancing princesses; a storm of gold, purple and silver. Light rebounds off gems, the twisted thread of gold and silver of circlets, adorning foreheads. Lucio lingers, gaze settled on the sisters. The sound of the drums, quicken as the hands of its master collides against them again and again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The dancing princesses are beautiful, beautiful as his own reflection. In their dance, in the music ringing out from their puppet master—there is a story. A story of quiet victory, of adoration and a fierce, fierce rebellion. Their jewellery, clinks with each shift of the body. He quietly wonders if the gold of his own necklace would be worthy to grace she in lavender’s neck. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prakra is brilliant in its princesses. The sisters in gold and silver retreat to stand before the wall; painted in the colors of nature. She adorned in colors of lavender—is frantic in her dancing. Her body moves this and that way, as the crowds become thunderous in their claps to the steady beat of the drums. She dances and dances, pirouetting from where she stands. She spins and spins, a hand extending to the brilliance of the gold in the ceiling. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He watches with bated breath and his lips twitches. He does not realize he smiles. The palm of one hand seeks to collide with a closed fist; curled around the handle of a goblet—in a clap. He claps in time with the drums, again and again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prakra is brilliant in its songs. A song spills from she in lavender’s lips, like the wine (as red as the crimson running through veins) from Lucio’s goblet. He does not realize his admiration, his quiet worship—until the iron of the goblet slips free from his uncareful grasp. He does not realize his quiet worship, until he realizes his jaw is lax, in the short parting of his lips. She in lavender’s hips move, as she dances to her own song; each word in time with the ode of his own heart. It is foreign, this quiet want twisting. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His want curls around his heart and it is dizzying in how it whispers and whispers. Lucio’s head aches from it. It is almost irritating but far, far too sweet like wine when he swallows his own want. He pushes and pushes until he is almost close to the stage. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prakra is brilliant in this single moment when her pirouette has ended and a bare foot meets the marble floor; her gaze finds him through intoxicated crowds. Her knees bend, fingers grasping the sides of the loose fabric of her dress—as she curtsies. The crowds are drunk on her beauty, her everything as they howl their approval. He is drunk too, on her everything. Lucio almost—almost lets her go in his daze.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She almost slips from his grasp. He does not let her, as boots roughly meet marble. A hand reaches, to curl around her wrist gently. She twirls, as she did before among her dance, to face him. Her gaze is wide as first, irritation lacing the lips that sung their sweet song moments before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prakra is not as beautiful as she in lavender. The curve of her lips and jaw—eyes that resemble red wine, the silken cloth of periwinkle and lavender adorning her body—he marvels at the beauty of it all. He hates himself for it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I have a gift for you,” he says, breathlessly for air has been stolen from his lungs. Quiet surprise dances across she in lavender’s eyes. Lucio’s lips curl into a smirk. His fingers seek to free the golden chain (with a small ruby cradled within its home of the center of the golden chain) adorning his pale neck. “May I—? It serves me not. Ruby would suit you far better than I.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You may,” she whispers, her chin dips in a nod—irritation fading into a small grin. A glint lingers in her eyes; red as the ruby necklace that Lucio carefully sought to clasp at the back of her neck. The cold steel of his golden hand brushes against her neck. She shudders.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prakra is not as pretty as she, wearing what belongs to him. He shifts to stand before her, quickly bowing. His lips seek her hand, eyes fluttering to a close. Her skin tastes sweet, much like lavender. It is opulence in its own right.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I am sure you know who I am. Count Lucio—but I’ve not yet to know the lady’s name...?” he enquires, confidence adorning his smile and the silver of his eyes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Princess Nadia. My name is Nadia Satrinava. I know not of who you may be, however—I should like to learn more of the bold gentleman before me if he does not object,” she whispers into his ear, between quiet laughter, when she draws herself close. “Dance with me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prakra is not as bold nor charming as it’s daughter, Nadia Santrinava. </p>
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